


the world drowned

by theelusiveflamingo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels, Gen, House Stark, Post-Series, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/pseuds/theelusiveflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They grew up on islands, the both of them, surrounded by grey sea and harsh rock.  Who better to rule this new North?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world drowned

They don’t smile much, the King in the North and his Queen; nor do they speak much unless an issue bears addressing.  It is said that up in Skagos Rickon lost much of what made him human; he’s halfway between human and beast, now.  Indeed, he often whispers in Shireen’s ear and has her speak for him; when he does raise his voice, his language is coarse and his speech sounds like something between a growl and a spit.

Their Winterfell remains half a shell and reduces many smallfolk to shivers.  Those who remember Winterfell of old dare not go near it unless forced.  Rickon and Shireen have rebuilt just a small portion of the old castle—just enough to live in.  The rest sits empty and crumbling, as it has for so many years.  _We do not want to forget_ , Shireen has explained, with Rickon mumbling fevered into her ear.  There are Ned and Catelyn and Robb, their blood soaked into southron earth.  There is Bran, nothing but a dim memory.  There are all the others who lost their lives on the day the world drowned.  And the ones who lived.  _Lived._ Arya, scars inside and out; Sansa, who sings quietly when she sings at all.

They are never to be forgotten, and a new breed of Stark must form in their place.

They speak of Rickon in hushed tones in the North; northern tongues trickle words down to southron ears.   Sometimes the King in the North has fits of rage.  He becomes full Skagosi then, long red curls flying, spittle pooling at the corners of his mouth.  He will fling cups and break dishes.  He wargs from human to savage to animal.  He wargs without warging.

“Rickon,” Shireen will say, in a voice cold as her still-barren womb, and he comes to her, curls around her grey skirts and furs, and presses his hand to her left cheek as if the hardness of her greyscale is his anchor.

They grew up on islands, the both of them, surrounded by grey sea and harsh rock.  Who better to rule this new North? the northmen whisper over their cups.  Who better than wild beast Rickon and his queen of stone?

 

 

 


End file.
